“Yes, sir,” Riess said, and slipped out the door, shutting it behind him and hearing the lock snap in place. He went the fifteen feet down the hallway to the security checkpoint and the Marine standing guard there, swiped his pass in the reader, listened as the locks snapped back in the access door. He pushed through, out of the Political/Economic Section, turning through the Public Affairs Section and nearly bumping into Lydia Straight as she emerged from Cultural Affairs Office with Emily Cachet, the CAO. He hit a second checkpoint, swiped through again, deeper into the building, passing the Warden’s office and yet more guards and another access door, which led to Tower’s domain of spooks and spies. He’d never been through that door, and never expected to be, either.
The last time he’d been home, he’d gone to the movies, seen some thriller where a secret agent had led the Marines on a merry chase through the halls of one U.S. embassy or another. He’d laughed so hard tears had run down his face at the ridiculousness of it all. Forget the fact that the Marines in question had been armed to the teeth with M-16s and M-89s, body-armored and laden with grenades—to Riess’ knowledge, there were perhaps a half-dozen weapons available to the Marines on post, and if even one of them needed to be drawn for active use, the Gunney in question would have demanded written permission from everyone up to and including the Ambassador himself—not even the Vice President of the United States could move through an embassy with such freedom. There were places in the building that Riess had never seen and never would see, and that was called security, and that was the way it was.
A last checkpoint, this time with two more Marines, and he was in the office of the Chief of Mission, waiting in the secretarial pool. He didn’t wait long.
The door of Garret’s office opened within a minute of his arrival, and the Ambassador emerged with Aaron Tower, both men looking grim. Tower, like Garret, was a big man, perhaps ten years younger, in his mid-forties, blond, and perpetually slouched. Tower acknowledged Riess with a nod, then turned back to the Ambassador.
“I should know more in the next few hours,” Tower said.
“Keep me posted.”
“Oh, I will, believe me.” Tower turned toward Riess. “Chuck.”
“Sir.”
Riess followed the Ambassador into his office. It was, as far as Riess knew, the biggest office in the building, with a view of the garden from the three windows that overlooked the chancery grounds. The desk was large enough to handle a computer, credenza, telephones, and an endless supply of papers, with a leather-backed executive chair for the Ambassador to park himself in while working. A round table, currently bare, was positioned off in the corner. The couch and four chairs in the center of the room were for more informal meetings. From a flagpole in the far corner hung an American flag, anchoring the requisite glory wall of photographs, the History of Kenneth Garret, spanning a career of thirty-plus years and five presidents. Shots of the Ambassador with Zinni at CENTCOM and Yeltsin at the Kremlin and with the President on Air Force One, and others, the faces of people less famous but no less important in Garret’s life. On the desk were an additional two framed photographs, one of Garret’s daughter at her wedding, the second of his son’s family, including Garret’s two grandchildren.
Garret moved behind his desk, pressed a blinking light on his phone, killing a waiting call, then looked up at Riess.
“Malikov’s been hospitalized,” he said. “They’re saying he had a stroke in the small hours this morning, but we don’t have confirmation yet.”
Riess stopped himself from swearing. “Can he speak?”
“We don’t know, but I’d be damn surprised if he could.”
“Ruslan can’t take it. If Malikov goes, Ruslan doesn’t have the backing.”
“I know.”
“If he tries for it, it’ll get ugly. That’s if Sevara doesn’t try to remove him preemptively.”
Garret looked at him patiently, waiting for Riess to stop stating the obvious.
“Is it natural?” Riess asked. “I mean, the stroke?”
“It’s possible, but it’s just as possible the old man was helped along.” Garret hesitated, then added, “That’s not why I wanted to see you.”
That was even more of a surprise. “Sir?”
“There’s a woman arriving sometime today, name of Carlisle. She’s here to lift Ruslan. Starting tonight, you need to hit the hotels. The Meridien, the InterContinental. Make contact with Carlisle, find out what she needs, if we can help. And it goes without saying that we don’t want the NSS knowing what you’re up to. For that matter, we don’t want Tower or McColl finding it out, either.”
Riess shook his head, trying, and failing, to hide his confusion. “This woman . . . who is she?”
“She’s a Brit, she’s here to get Ruslan and his kid out, that’s all you need to worry about.”
“She’s SIS?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Garret stopped, reading Riess’ expression, then sighed. “I’m sorry, I can’t even remember who I’m lying to anymore. Sit down.”
Riess sat, looking at the Ambassador, bewildered. Garret sighed a second time, now regarding him more kindly, then came around the big desk and took the seat beside him, turning his chair so they could sit face to face. He kept his voice low when he spoke.
“After we talked about Ruslan, I floated a query back to State about Malikov’s replacement. And the situation is exactly what we knew it would be—it’s the Kissinger realists, and they think they can work with Sevara. We’re getting no backing there, nothing, and you can bet your ass that Tower’s already informed Langley that Malikov is circling the drain, and Langley’ll pass that on to POTUS first thing in the morning, and we’re going to be right back where we started.
“So I reached out to a friend at the FCO. Upshot is, the British are willing to aid in the transition: they’ll back Ruslan. Hence the presence of this operative.”
Riess thought, and all he had immediately were questions, so he began voicing them. “Then why isn’t she going through their Station? Why involve me?”
“It’s got to be done quietly, and that means she’s here outside of channels. Figure the FCO is rowing the same direction as the crew at State—they’re looking at the realist solution. But my guy, he’s got a green light from the Prime Minister as long as we can pull this off quietly.”
“How quietly?”
“The White House doesn’t find out until after the fact. Their Prime Minister sure as hell isn’t going to want to get into a knife fight with POTUS over Uzbekistan. Not during a time of war.”
Riess shook his head. “I don’t know how much help I’m going to be to her.”
“Neither do I,” Garret said. “But if the NSS and/or Sevara has Ruslan in their sights, they’re sure not going to let him just hop on a jet and fly to London. And this agent, she’s hitting the ground naked. You need to provide her with some clothes, so to speak.”
Riess didn’t speak. One agent, without support, coming to lift Ruslan and his son. He couldn’t begin to imagine how she would pull it off.
But sitting in the office, his Ambassador fixing him with a gaze as heavy and serious as stone, he had to believe it was possible. Certainly Garret believed it.
Riess nodded. “All right. I’ll hit the Meridien first. You want me to come by after I make contact?”
“If it’s pressing. Otherwise, it can wait until the morning. You’ve still got the NSS on you?”
“Yeah, ever since Sunday. They’re not trying to be subtle about it.”
“Then contact
Riess thought about the way the NSS asked questions, and said nothing.
He ran into Aaron Tower, coming out of Lydia Straight’s office.
“Have a good talk with the Ambassador?”
“I suppose, yeah.”
“He told you about Malikov?”
“Asked what I thought the DPM response would be.”
“Feeding frenzy.”
“Feeding frenzy,” Riess agreed.
